


baby steps (down to Hell)

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [49]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, M/M, Rejection, allusions to self-worth and self-esteem issues, inspired by a day in the life (the magicians), mmmmyeah it’s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Newt wants this, really, he does, but—It’s the Drift-bleed; that’s the only explanation.





	baby steps (down to Hell)

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: “could you write this? "I've matured as a person since then." + "It was two hours ago.””

“You shouldn’t drink,” Hermann says, somehow in equal parts tender and frustrated, but wholly, wholly scolding because he’s _Hermann_. “You haven’t even been to see a doctor yet.”

“I _am_ a doctor,” Newt grumbles, knows he sounds congested and half-dead on his feet, blood still dried on his upper lip; he didn’t manage to wipe it all off, the first or second time.

Hermann frowns at him. “A _medical_ doctor,” he stresses. “I’ve known for years you were feckless with regards to your health, but this is simply ridiculous, Newton—”

Newt waves him off. “I’m not a kid, dude, I’ve matured since then.”

(He says it like that and knows it sounds like he means one thing but—)

(Since the _Drift,_ he means, but doesn’t say aloud. It feels—shockingly, fragile.)

So, he’s not very good at expressing himself—in the ways that matter, anyway, but what’s new, Scooby-Do?

“That was two hours ago,” Hermann points out, and Newt starts, about to ask how he knows, but—of course: the Drift. _What will this mean for us?_ he wonders. Will it complicate whatever it is they have? Because Newt doesn’t—he doesn’t want to go back to what they were at the start, doesn’t want to be angry and spiteful and still hurting over what isn’t even a break-up, not really, because there wasn’t a _them_ to start with.

So instead, he peels his lips back over his teeth—odd, how alien the basic human gesture seems, but, he figures, it makes sense; he does keep forgetting that he doesn’t have eight arms, which, creepy, what are the kaiju overlords, arachnids?

(Worse, he knows; at least spiders have beauty in a way something deadly and so basely _animalistic—_ even if, yeah, they’re not really _animals—_ does, they have their place in the ecosystem. The kaiju overlords were—malicious. Greedy. Horrifyingly human in that way, and frighteningly inhuman in all others.)

Hermann licks his lips, tugs away a piece of dead skin—a nervous habit of _Newt’s_ , actually, isn’t that odd—and says, “Newton, can we—can we talk?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Newt replies, falsely cheerful, because he’s not fine by any definition of the word and it feels like he’s an intruder in his own body, skin too tight, and if he stops going through the motions, the ones he knows he does and annoy others and yeah, he knows that _too_ but it feels like he’ll fall to pieces if he stops—“oh, you mean—in private?”

Hermann blinks at him, the motion somehow conveying the phantom of gratefulness. “Ah, yes—if you don’t mind.”

His lips twist up, unbidden, and it hurts, somehow, but he says, “Yeah, Herms, lead the way.”

That Hermann doesn’t scowl and snap at him for that is, somehow, a strike against—what? Newt’s not even sure, but _something_. Hermann’s hand’s on his arm, then, and Newt falls in step beside him, lets him brace against him, and doesn’t comment.

The hallway they end up in is somewhere near their lab—far enough from LOCCENT that the sounds of partying are muffled, the light dim on the concrete walls. Hermann breaks away from him and sits on the step in front of one of the doors, and Newt sits next to him.

They’re silent for a moment, before Hermann says, voice uncharacteristically thick, “…we work together, don’t we?”

“What?” He’s—startled, and, really, it’s odd; he shouldn’t be, because, in theory, the Drift should’ve put them in perfect synchrony, but, hey, dying fetal kaiju brain, so maybe that has something to do with it.

“Us,” Hermann clarifies, and Newt thinks, _fuck, I know where this is going_ and if it does—“what if—what if we tried it? Together? We’re not—complimentary, but we _work_ , somehow.”

And Newt is—

Frozen, because—

“Why the hell not?” Hermann asks, desperately, his hand suddenly gripping Newt’s, tightly, “why—”

“Hermann,” Newt says, softly, because this can’t be real, it’s just the Drift bleed—“Hermann, I—I love you, Hermann, but—you’re still experiencing Drift bleed, Hermann, and I am too.” He takes a breath. (So goddamn afraid but— _Doctor Geiszler, yes. Newt? Not recommended_.) “I love you, Hermann, but…this isn’t me, not fully, and this—” he eases his hand out of Hermann’s, “this sure as hell isn’t you.”

Hermann lets out a soft, quiet, barely-there noise, and Newt wants to take it all back except it isn’t Hermann, not really, not fully, _can’t_ be, and Newt doesn’t want to trap him in something he’ll regret. “Oh,” Hermann says, not meeting his eyes. “…alright. Alright.”

Newt ignores the aching hollowness of that and doesn’t reach out like he wants to. Some things are better left undone, for all parties involved.


End file.
